


Fleeting Living

by timelockedmaniac



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Original Fiction, Slice of Life, bildungsroman, homunculus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelockedmaniac/pseuds/timelockedmaniac
Summary: A compilation of snippets of a homunculus' short life before his inevitable death.





	Fleeting Living

A faint humming awoke him, and as his eyes blearily blinked out the dirt accumulated, the sight of a silver statue greeted him. It was small, thin and curved, and catching the light beaming from the side. Pushing himself off the floor, his hands marveled at how the wooden boards beneath him brushed against his skin. The tactile sensation got his attention, and he idly stroked the floor while taking in his surroundings. The bright thin silver in the dark sky gleamed off light through the window, somehow bright enough to illuminate the room.

Glancing back at the statue, it was no longer reflecting light off the moon, and under closer inspection held similarities to the light in the sky. A metal interpretation of the waning moon. A book laid beneath it, its pages white and pristine. His hands gingerly lifted the statue from the tome, and laid it aside. The cover was pale and smooth, not unlike leather, and as he thumbed open the book, the inked words within made him pause.

Taking a second to read it, he took another sweeping glance of the room. Finding a closet, he moved towards it, and found a set of clothing within. A pouch fell from the folds as he wore the shirt, clinking as it hit the wooden floor. His movements paused for several moments, watching the fallen object intensely, before he continued donning the clothing.

With the clothes on his back and the pouch in his pocket, he continued reading.

‘You might be confused, but I have written everything you need to know in this journal. Take care not to lose it, and do your best with your new life. I love you.’

He didn’t know what the words meant, yet he took heed and continued to read as he opened the door. The treeline ahead of him awaited patiently as he looked at it, before returning to the written world in his hands with his bare feet trodding onwards, away from the wooden cabin.

Leaving silence in his wake.

* * *

  
  


It was the first he heard of crackling from fire, how it occasionally popped and erupted smoke. The journal mentioned that fire could do so, he had never heard it before. The three other men around it sighed as the night air warmed up.

“Never seen a fire before?” The gruff voice of Rye rang out from beside him, managing to interrupt the snapping of branches from the fire. He responded with a nod, savouring the warmth of the flickering flames as well as the choking smoke that billowed out gently. “Christ, you can’t be that sheltered. What, were you born yesterday?” Syarte guffawed at that, but Gram was glaring at the eldest.

“Four days ago.” The quiet reply seemed to go unheard as Rye’s rough fingers pushed a skewer of bird meat at him.

“Yeah and so was I.” The black eyes of Rye rolled as his own fingers took the offered stick. Gram’s eyes remained set on Rye with a growing frown. “You can’t actually believe that he’s four days old right? He looks like an adult! Look at him! And with clothes that decent you would think that he had some noble blood too.” The mute brother threw a pebble at Rye who yelped as it hit him. “Fine fine. I’m not going to take his words for granted, but that doesn’t even matter.”

“I was born from the moon. I’m not human, and I'll never be.” Those words drew the attention of the three other men, and the youngest snorted.

“There are humans who resemble monsters more.” Syarte’s bitter voice came from his side. “We weren’t given a choice to live you know, got kicked out of our own home because we didn’t have parents. We were mere children and they tossed us into the wild with nothing.”

Rye stifled a laugh, swallowing a bite of meat before he spoke. “And here we are, surviving off of wild game and miserable merchants who run at the sight of a blade.”

“Merchants?” The word was familiar, but his mother’s journal never did explain it. She only wrote that they were people he could get material goods in exchange for the gold she left him.

Syarte nodded, his earlier scowl replaced itself with a dark grin. ”We thought you was one from your clothing, but you’re far too skinny to have that life. They’re rich bastards carrying goods. They always have money, and always have something to give us. It takes some persuasion,” A dull blade glinted off the light of the campfire as Syarte brandished it, “But they do contribute to our livelihood.”

An idea weaved itself into his mind, the first idea he had of his future.

“I could be a merchant.”

The trio laughed at that, but the heavy pouch of gold in his pocket assured him of the potential.

“Even if you could, you would need loads of money to start, and then you would need to know how to barter and trade. Be sure to give us some food every now and then if you do become one.” The words of Rye held a small measure of mirth in them, but he took it to heart. He had yet to finish reading the journal, but she had mentioned something about doing physical labour in exchange for gold in the earlier pages he read.

His mind became preoccupied with plans as the brothers ate and talked through the night.

* * *

  
  


The hallways of the castle never ceased to amaze him. His eyes savoured every detail of every archway, every stroke adorning each painting and every inch of the tapestry as he followed his escort. A particularly well polished vase caught his eye, and he paused to admire it. A simple falcon, a bird of prey that the Ashtons used as their family’s emblem, was painted to the side of it.

“Mr. Shelley, if you would?” The butler ahead of him turned back and gestured him to quicken his pace.

‘Such prudence.’ He almost slipped, for his tongue was already sucked back. Forcing himself to relax, he relaxed his shoulders as he hastened to thread behind the butler. It would not do to snap under such a trivial circumstance. His mother and Sister Augustine had taught him better than that. However, he grew bored of the amount of times he had strode through that very hall for it made him familiar with the layout of that particular section of the mansion. It made sense that the Lord of the house would insist on that very route at every opportunity, given his career. Still, he had hoped that their working relationship would allow for a more intimate setting.

Reaching a set of large oaken doors, the butler rose a hand to rapt it. The same set of repetitions and rhythm he heard over the past three years.

“Come in.” The deep baritone rumble was muffled by the doors, which was followed by the butler pulling the door open for him to enter. Giving him a small nod, the merchant entered the room.

“As usual, I bring spices and wines in abundance.” It was a new greeting he was trying out, and it seemed to roll off his tongue rather well.

“Do you have any news from the north?” Lord Ashton’s piercing brown eyes held firm on him as he glanced around the room. With the arising revolution, it was understandable that he would be forgoing their usual back and forth banter.

“I bring mostly the words of the commoners, but the Duke of Reightingfield wishes to send his apologies for being unable to participate in the upcoming Festival of Roses. His lady’s health has been deteriorating for some time now, and he hopes that you would understand.” A romance volume with a familiar title hidden between the organised shelf of atlases caught his eye, as well as a tea set that sat conspicuously on a table by the bookshelf. Turning to face the Lord, he gave a small bow, before moving to sit by the table.

“And what do you think of it?” The gaze remained on him, scrutinizing as his fingers gingerly opened the tea pot.

“Prepare for a coup. Word of assassination and outright rebellion has been sown within the countrymen amongst Reightingfield. My sales of Belladonna have been prospering the past summer.” Pouring himself a cup, the merchant took a small sniff of the still warm tea. “Ah, ginger and chamomile, a rather fortunate combination.” Seeing the tightness around the Lord’s lips strain, he couldn’t help his smile from forming. “I do hope Lady Ashton is doing well enough to travel. I hear that the tulip fields by our Majesty Pendragon’s kingdom are flourishing rather well this time of year.”

The tension visibly intensified in the stern man after those words. Feeling eyes lifted from his form, a quick glance to the Lord told him much. The quill scribbling down notes onto parchment accompanied with irregular breathing made the grin on his lips soften.

“The people of Veldur aren’t inclined to aid in your future endeavours, my Lord. Might I be so bold as to recommend a plan of action?”

The frenzied stare fixated on him prompted him to continue.

“You have been staying at home for far too long, a trip or two down the city plaza may be beneficial to your health. The breweries and blacksmiths have increased their orders significantly, mayhaps sharing a drink while admiring steelwork would help you relax.” It was a way of speaking that he had developed over his career, one that hid his intentions beneath other words. One that the man in front of him taught him. ‘The people have not felt your presence, and so are more brazen to join in the uprising. Demonstrate strength or kindness, for either would aid in public perception.’

The Lord’s lips pursed together, and he gave a small nod. His broad shoulders eased up, and for once in months, relaxed.

“Thank you; I hope that the payment for your delivery is satisfactory. It’s regrettable that I could not be more hospitable today. I shall see to it that your next arrival will be greeted within more amicable circumstances.” He could tell that the noble’s apologetic smile was genuine after the years of working with him. A customary bow was given before he excused himself from the room. Lord Ashton’s butler closed the door in front of him, before a pouch was presented by the grey haired servant.

“Should I prepare garments for the new arriving member of the family?” He asked the butler as he took the hefty pouch, and it amused him to see the eyes of the butler widen slightly before the greying eyebrows furrowed together.

“It wouldn’t hurt to prepare a few.” It took him a few moments, but the butler regained his composure quickly. “Shall I escort you out? Or do you wish to stay for refreshments Mr. Shelley?”

“I got a few days of reprieve before I’m expected to bring Duke Percival his goods.” The younger man mused, before shaking his head with an apologetic grin. “But I’m afraid I am unable to remain for long. Thank you kindly for your offer, Sir Sebastion.”

“It seems like your old habit has returned Mr. Shelley. It would not do for such an esteemed gentleman such as yourself to resort to underhanded faux pas.” The butler retorted, before a faint smile grew on the face of the elder gentleman.

“Reminiscing is remiss of a man of your stature, yet a reminder of your knighthood every so often might be beneficial.” The annoyed glance from Sebastion was worth it, and he gave the butler a small nod in thanks as the heavy doors to the courtyard opened for him.

“Your cheek may one day be your downfall.” With those as his parting words, the door closed behind him, and the gentle breeze of the large open field graced his cheeks. A beautifully maintained garden laid before him, with several hedges sculpted into various abstract designs. Or perhaps they were in need of a trim.

The horses pulling his carriage brayed as he approached, and he gave them a few strokes each before getting up to ride out of the Lord’s estate. The carriage left the compound several crates lighter, and the rustling of leaves above head as he entered the tree line accompanied him for the rest of the journey.

* * *

The occasional roar of waves crashing felt familiar, yet the vertigo he experienced as the ship’s rocking never ceased to make him nauseous. It pained him to consume some of his own wares, yet the lemon slices helped greatly. The stinging acrid taste of citrus alleviated the sea-sickness as he chewed on them. Wooden boards on the porthole barred his view to the outside of the ship, but did nothing for the occasional seafoam leaking through.

A smart move from the captain, he mused as a finger pinched the edge of the weathered book he was perusing. His curious tendencies as well as his reputation for being an inquisitive merchant made sure that his main source of information could not be based on socialising with other people, for they would be wary around him. On a ship with at least a dozen passengers with multitudes of dreary stories and unwelcome desires, keeping a nosy passenger in a corner of the ship would do well to prevent any incidents.

A knock on his cabin door prompted him to look up and smile at the deck-hand who sheepishly entered with a tray of gruel.

“Ah, thank you.” Setting the book away from him as the sweaty sailor set the tray of grey porridge down onto his table, they exchanged very different smiles. A glint from under the shirt caught his eyes as the young man bowed. Muttering an apology for disturbing the silence, the deck-hand turned to the door to leave hastily.

“You might want some ointment for your hands.” He called out.

The shy boy jolted, and turned back to look at him.

“Your hands have too much rope burn than normal. I got a batch of ointment somewhere here that can help with the healing,” The wide blue eyes showed surprise. A small grin tugged at his own lips, for the reactions of people never failed to amused him. “Let me guess, you probably joined this crew recently. First time you’ve been on a ship, joining the crew to run away from your family, and you’ve messed up on the ropes for long enough until a more senior deck-hand got you to do the ropes for many shifts.”

“How did you…” The quiet voice trailed off, as a hand gestured to the boy’s.

“Your hand is scarred. A smooth line on the back of your hand, so it was likely from a blade or sharp edge, speaking of an occupation or experience that relates closely to blades such as a blacksmith or a knight. Your pendant. Its uncommon for a commoner to have one made of such a refined metal to glimmer so much under candlelight, so you’re probably of nobility or aristocracy. Your disposition to apologise. Telling for someone who came from an abusive family while being molded into a person who accepts ideologies and perspectives without expressing their own.” His stomach lurched as the ship rolled, and he had to keep a tight grip on his stomach to hold back the vomit. Taking a moment to regain his composure, a tightness clenched within his chest as the boy started tearing up.

“How?” The awe was obvious in the youth, and for a moment he could see himself in those teary bright blue eyes.

Filthy, lonely, struggling. 

Curious.

“Take a seat, it’ll take a while. You’re not on duty now are you?” The vigorously shaking head made him chuckle. A gaze that held near reverence fixated on him, one that he once wielded.

“What do you think of when you see me? Who am I?”

The question took the boy off guard, and he stammered for a moment before he settled for a short statement.

“A rich merchant.”

The grin on his lips turned bitter as cynical poison polluted his mind, and yet the unknowing boy’s eyes never strayed from the curious light.

“You’re right, but oh so wrong. I am a merchant, but I am also so much more. My identity is more than a simple dress, name or occupation. I am my past experiences and future decisions condensed into a single individual. By recognising that I am no more nor less than this, I look at others and see their histories written in their scars and the futures written in their eyes. I am nothing special, I’m just able to see through the cracks of your body into your soul.”

The ringing bells overhead made the boy jerk up right, and the anxious fidgets he exhibited told him of a lie the boy had spoken.

“Looks like you’ve got to go.” An apologetic nod was all that he could muster. “Before you go, what’s your name?”

The dirtied face turned back to face him, and a small reluctant smile rose on the face of a naive boy.

“Arthur. Arthur Pendragon.”

The revelation did surprise him, but the rogue prince had already left and shut the door. His head shook as he chuckled to himself, before he picked up the worn journal from the bed. Thumbing through the pages gently, he returned to his reading with much to mull about.

And again, silence returned to his side.

* * *

  
  


The doors to the church creaked open, and he peeked in to glance around. A figure dressed in a yellow tinted gown rushed to greet him, and her weathered smile was a welcome one.

“Sister Augustine.” He greeted with a slight bow.

“Fran, I wasn’t expecting you today.” Her hands fussed over him for a moment, checking him for any injuries before her frail arms entrapped him within a tight embrace that he returned. Pulling back, she took another look at him, and sighed. "My mother used to say that 'With some people you can smell the wind in their boots’, and I can tell that you've been travelling more than usual." A small frown marred her greying brow as her warm brown eyes stared at his face. “Are you alright?” A hand reached up, and stroked the side of his face. A small smile pulled on his lips as he relaxed a little into her palm.

“Yeah, I’m making a last trip before I go visit my mother’s grave. It’s time for me to return from where I came from.” A wistful sigh escaped him as Sister Augustine released him. The frown deepened, and a small seed of worry sprouted in his chest as her lips quivered.

“I’ve known you for the past decade, but you have changed so much over the last year. There’s this look about you now, that you’re satisfied with everything that has happened to you and it scares me. I know you’ll never listen to me, but I’ll repeat myself.” Her hands grabbed onto his gently, and she stared into his eyes. “There is no such thing as an undeserved life, only a wasted one. No matter what’s going to happen, or however grim things look, wait and hope. That is all anyone can do.”

The exact same words that she told him all those years ago when she dragged him into the church made him tense up, and he gave a small nod to appease her.

“I will.” Clearing his throat, he gently pried his hands out of her’s. “I’m going to visit my mother’s grave, but I’m afraid that I won’t be able to return. I brought some food and clothing as thanks for taking care of me all these years. The Sister gave him a disapproving look as she turned back to return to the altar.

“Nonsense, it's the least I could do to help a lost child. Speaking of, the children have always been grateful for the food you’ve been providing.” Her soft voice carried through the silent hall as she strode through the aisle of benches. “It’s a shame that they’ve missed you, they just left for their pilgrimage two days prior. If you’re in no rush, they’ll be back tomorrow. I know that they would like to see you one last time.”

“I’m sorry, but time is not on my side today.” The elderly woman’s sulking expression at his words would have amused him if he didn’t share her sentiments. “At least the King made the city safe enough for them to travel to.” He tried to distract her from the goodbye. It appeared to work as she clicked her tongue from across the church.

“I don’t know what he had in mind by hiring bandits and criminals into the militia, but at least it’s doing some good. Those poor people finally have a chance at a better life thanks to King Arthur.” Her mutterings elicited a chuckle from him as she continued cleaning the altar.

“No matter what happens, you’ll never change will you?” The words under his breath seemed to escape her notice, and she turned to look at him after a few quiet moments.

“We’ll be here, if or when you return. You stay safe out there regardless alright? May the Lord bless you with safe travels.” The gentle smile that he grew to admire greeted him one last time, and the weight in his pocket made itself known again.

“And may He you.”

With those as his parting words, and one last bow, he excused himself from the place of worship. The crates by the door held food and clothes as he said, but the unspoken pouches containing his entire fortune within them would not hurt them. Throwing one last glance over his shoulder, and ignoring the weight growing in his heart, he marched away.

Assurances felt empty as he mulled over his decision to leave one last impression on the woman who helped and taught him many years ago, but he felt that he could have done more to return all her favours she granted to him without asking for compensation. But what more could he do?

Silence could not respond to his worries, but he did not expect it to.

* * *

The walk from the town of Veldur to his destination was a long one, one he was prepared to spend alone with the flora surrounding him. The walk took him back to the trail from which he once threaded out of, away from a trio of bandits that almost robbed him. A serene moment that he had experienced several times a day reasserted itself in him again, yet the weight of the trinkets in his pockets ensured that he would not feel lonely when he was alone.

He found himself back at the small clearing where he rested with the first people in his lives. He could almost see the brothers sitting by a fire, laughing at him. Taking a break from the walk, he rested under the shade of a tree.

Chains tinkled as he brought it out from his pocket. It was tarnished and dull, unlike the polished silver it once was. A testament to how old he had become from when the Rogue Prince had given him it. A pendant bearing the royal emblem dangled by the lockets of silver caught the light of the setting sun into his eyes.

It was hard to resist reminiscing the past when his end crept closer with every step, yet he could never regret his choices.

His hand fished out the two other items from his pockets, and their familiar weight comforted him.

The silver pendant, a sign of friendship and thanks from the King after his coronation. One he was reluctant to wear.

The wooden cross, a blessing from Sister Augustine when he first left to be a merchant so that he would never lose his way. One he always carried with.

The signet ring, a proof of kinship from the Ashtons after the birth of the young Lord Ashton. One he could not lose.

They were old, worn out, tarnished.

Cherished.

With great care, he threaded each one onto the chain. Each one rested besides the other. A proof of his life from the lives of other people that he touched. From the lives of other people that touched his.

The sun loomed over head as he rested. He had more time to spend with silence.

  
  
  


The thicket slowly parted to reveal the graveyard that held his mother’s makeshift grave as he approached. Eyes looked up in search of the moon, only to be comforted by the warm orange glow of the sky. It resembled the fire he once shared with the nicest bandits he knew.

“I am not human, yet I tried to be.” 

Reaching for the necklace around his neck, the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. A hand brought out the yellowed journal, it’s cover brown and worn from the many times he read it, and flipped open as he read his mother’s words for the last time. Every word written by a quill held a connection to her, and even if he never met her, he could tell that she did much for a son that she could never raise.

"It is time." The ethereal voice from overhead whispered into his ear. The graveyard held but a single soul, his own. Yet he knew what was speaking to him. His knees were sore from kneeling in front of a mossy grave, his body cold from the winter bite, and yet he never felt more alive. Words he wanted to speak but never could pressed against his mind, and he relented for a moment of mourning.

"She made me. She taught me everything I know. Every emotion, fact, thought, concept, desire that I could ever have. But after she left, after I started living, I felt it all. Happiness for my existence. Grief over her death, over the eternity I would experience without ever seeing her smile. Excitement for all that would come to pass. Guilt for not having any remembrance of her." A hand stroked the headstone, and the faint light from the moon ahead caught light off of falling tears.

"I will be forever grateful to my mother, for she gave me the memories of life in exchange for her own."

A hand laid the worn out journal onto the tombstone, before reaching up to gingerly touch the necklace around his neck. Nimble fingers undid the chain, and he brought it up to examine each trinket dangling from it.

“For my mother Mary, Rye, Gran, Syarte, Sister Augustine, the Ashtons, Arthur, and the many more who were a part of my life. Thank you for allowing me to experience life without loneliness.”

The dull silver chain and its adornments rested besides the book, and he took a moment to reminisce.

Pushing himself up, his eyes stared at the moon in acceptance. They closed as his body faded into the ether from which he was born out of. A gentle wind swept past the empty graves, flipping through the pages of an ancient journal left open on the grave. As the breeze subsided, leaving only silence, the journal rested on the final page.

‘I love you, my son.’

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this for a contest, and I haven't heard back from the organisers so I'm assuming that I didn't win anything. I started writing this based off the idea of a merchant who was also a spy, but then I had a sudden inspiration of using the 'isekai', aka 'travelling to another world' trope which lead to the homunculus being born in the first scene. The scene with the bandits served as a building point of the homunculus' personality of wanting to help others, as well as his first idea of being a merchant. After that there are multiple time skips, each building onto his personality and giving him a jaded view of the world while still maintaining his pure intentions of wanting to help others. Its a small drabble thing, and I'm very emotionally invested in this so I'll drop it off here and never return :D
> 
> Fun stuff:
> 
> If you noticed, the protagonist's name is Fran Shelley, and I meant to use his name as a reference to Mary Shelley, who wrote about Frankenstein as thats another inspiration to this story. The rest of the names are just thought up from names of friends and characters I know offhandedly, but the Rogue Prince is indeed Arthur Pendragon, which I used because there isn't any copyright on that name (since the legends are older than the copyright laws), and he ascended to the throne a couple of weeks before Fran's death due to his father being assassinated/otherwise preoccupied with death.


End file.
